Cam and Lynds Talk Culture

“I didn’t have time to see if they looked good or not, whether they were blondes or not.”

That was the response of Russian President Putin after a topless Femen activist spewed “Fuck you, dictator!” in his face a couple weeks ago.

The dialogue, not surprisingly, epitomizes a crusade against injustice gone terribly wrong.

Femen, a radical feminist coalition that started in 2008 as a “sexual revolt” against Ukraine’s sex industry, has gleaned high-profile coverage of their protests against patriarchy in “the dictatorship, the church, and the sex industry.” While their demonstrations have ranged from rallying outside the Turkish embassy in skimpy, “sexy nurse” outfits to sawing down a 13-foot wooden cross in central Kyiv, their most recent act of “hooliganism” (their technical criminal charge) was an “anti-dictatorial attack on Putin” at a trade fair in Hanover. The protest has sparked such widespread attention in the media that the photo below is “what will likely be judged one of the most prominent news pictures of 2013.”

Femen is messed-up for obvious reasons: their vendetta against “the Enemy” (men) is self-crippling, their shock-value entrenches the misogyny they seek to destroy, and they propagate colonial, ethnocentric premises of resistance. Since many target “Femi-Nazis” as a “love to hate ‘em” kind of group, I guess these critiques go without saying.

But Femen, extreme as they are, still incarnates a mentality that typifies the average postmodern woman: to be fully independent, she must be “sexually free” and”own” her body as a response to sexual commodification. The once radical mentality that made Sylvia Plath view her virginity as a “millstone around her neck” decades ago is now the commonplace expectation that makes Ansiedad in Girl in Progress glorify the loss of virginity as her right-of-passage into adulthood.

But, the phrasing of “sexual freedom” offers only a façade of liberation. It is really undergirded by a hegemonic stranglehold on language— a new cultural captivity just as imprisoning as the straight-laced “purity” in Plath’s time. Femen thus overlooks that a “most visual and fitting embodiment” of fearlessness does nothing other than intensify a sexually objectifying gaze. Just look at how limited their “visual” is, with front-women who could double as mainstream models (media coverage certainly isn’t occupied by naked protestors who are over 60 or obese).

Just as the privileged woman’s false notion of corporeal autonomy renders her ineffective to combat something as destructive as the sex industry, so does any attitude that alienates women from men. For Femen to expect a patriarchal world to be changed on their own divisive terms— i.e., I will throw my naked body at you until you learn to stop treating me as a sex object— is like expecting an alcoholic to become sober by thrusting whiskey in his face. You don’t punish the wrongdoer by using the very object of temptation as a weapon.

Lynds and I recently heard about a fundraising initiative for sex-trafficking that not only abated our disillusionment with Femen’s clutch on the feminist cause, but reminded us that the goal of feminism is as much reconciliation between genders as it is cultivating societal conditions that acknowledge a woman’s full worth.

In Walk a Mile in Her Shoes, a fundraising event offered by the International Men’s March to Stop Rape, Sexual Assault & Gender Violence, “men literally walk one mile in women’s high heeled shoes to protest sexualized violence, educate their communities and raise money for chronically underfunded rape crisis centers, domestic violence shelters and other sexualized violence prevention and recovery services.”

In similar demonstrations, participants might run barefoot to simulate a refugee. I would assume that a symbolic act such as this one—with its powerful visual and partcipants’ voluntary discomfort— might be more attractive to a man than a mile-walk in high heels. Yet it is the very symbol of a woman forced to decorate and sell herself— a symbol that underscores her humiliation— that the men willingly take on. Why do they embrace this route of self-imposed humility, or even for some (however trivially), humiliation?

I think of how Jesus willingly washed the disciples’ feet when He realized “that He had come from God and was returning to God.” He assumed a most outrageous posture of servitude when He had faith that it had eternal worth in God’s economy.

Not only is Walk a Mile in Her Shoes just one example of an effective fight against sex-trafficking because of the substantial funds it raises; it is also an example of how feminism’s goal should be not a deeper line in the sand between genders, but a reinforced partnership of mutual servitude. My point here is NOT that a guy has to wear high-heels to fight patriarchal power structures; I use this example simply as a radical symbol of an  attitude that directly opposes Femen’s.

The attitude — whether it manifests in a grace-filled discussion about pornography, a church’s collective and unbiased probing of gender roles in Scripture, or a joint effort to generate funds for WAR or the A21 Campaign — is one that fosters unity. Only in this kind of community— one that pulsates with grace and sacrifice— can we supplant cultural notions of femininity and masculinity with gender restoration, not gender abolition. As Dr. N.T. Wright argues, “being male and female, and working out what that means, is something most of creation is called to do and be.”

Since it’s easy to dislike Femen, it’s also easy to brush them under the rug in social justice or feminist discourse. But as Christians— people united under a term that carries just as much baggage as “feminist” does— we’d do well to reclaim and redefine our redemptive mission in every social avenue, be it women’s rights, economic disparity, racial reconciliation, or immigration reform. Otherwise, we can expect to hear the same degrading dialogue among those who most need a “renovation of the heart.” After all, President Putin’s tongue-in-cheek response to the “obscene slogan” on the back of a topless female protester was that he “liked” it.

You’ve seen it before: an acquaintance writes something downright insensitive or ballsy—borderline offensive—on Facebook. Then they excuse their brashness with an old standby: 

“Sorry, I was born without a filter.”

“I’m just being my genuine self.”

“If you can’t handle me, don’t be around me.” 

Suppressing your thoughts is an uncommon practice, especially in a culture that loves its reality television and so-called “authenticity.” Just look at the way we celebrated Jennifer Lawrence’s tipsy post-Oscar press conference. Speaking her mind and telling reporters off wasn’t cheeky or rude but “artful, funny, flippant and endearing.” The hype over Lawrence made me wonder, how did we get to this point where we view reckless speech as authentic and therefore desirable, rather than foolish? 

If you’re sick of hearing people blame social media for the world’s ills, you’re not alone. But in this instance, the blame may be merited. Outlets like Twitter and Facebook have conditioned us to broadcast spontaneous thoughts. If social media didn’t cultivate this “type thought; push button” culture, they wouldn’t have content. No content? No traffic. No traffic? No one to view ads. No views? No revenue. 

But it’s not like Twitter and Facebook force us to put our opinions and frustrations on daily display. We do that ourselves. And, oh, we are bold. 53% of us say things online that we wouldn’t dare say in person. Is it possible that this confessional Internet culture has made us less cautious about what we say in person?  

Take a look at The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, a popular Youtube series whose plotline capitalizes on the faux pas of loose-lipped characters. Those of you unfamiliar with the show should know that it is an inventive contemporary adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that pits a hotly critical Internet-personality Elizabeth against an Ivy League minted (and therefore pompous) corporate executive Darcy. The primary aim of the videos is to document the Bennet girls’ romantic lives with all the exactitude of a tabloid. 

I’ve found that, in order to enjoy the show, I have to suspend my disbelief that someone could (a.) speculate openly about her friends’ private lives without their permission, (b.) air her observations to a quarter million people on the Internet, and (c.) not suffer lasting consequences, let alone legal action.

In fact, Lizzie sails through 100 videos essentially unscathed. Sure, she temporarily splinters her friendship with Charlotte—and later, Lydia—over her tell-all videos, but the relationships mend pleasantly and don’t deter her from uploading the next confessional vlog later that week. 

Even her greatest recurring mistake, insulting the wealthiest and most attractive man she knows, is not met with a slap on the wrist but a reward: Darcy falls head over heels in love with her anyway. He doesn’t begrudge her for her bombastic hate-speech, but admires her for bravely broadcasting her genuine feelings. 

(Word to the wise: last time I tried this method of winning a man, I received a life-long cold shoulder.)

If the show is so unbelievable, why has it grown so popular? Could a plot line where characters rashly “bare all” reflect our lives more accurately than we think? Maybe that’s why we’re so quick to accept Lizzie’s confessions and their improbable outcomes. Still, I wonder if the show deceived us into thinking true vulnerability means making our personal lives public. After all, isn’t that how Lizzie snagged a man and furthered her career? 

In an individualistic culture where people think, speak and act autonomously (not on the behalf of a group or in consideration of others), we feel that we alone should have the say over what spills out of our mouths—and onto our Twitter. 

But this is a misguided and selfish approach to being authentic. Go ahead. Dump your feelings or ideas without thinking of how they’ll affect others. You’ll appear genuine—but you’ll also look like an ass.

When someone says, “Sorry, I was born without a filter,” they’re using genetics as the scapegoat for things they can control. They can restrain their tongues and think about others, they just choose not to. 

What’s more, impulsive online confessions made without regard for others are made in the dark. We don’t get to observe first-hand how our words affect others, and we don’t have to deal with negative “feedback” if we don’t want to. We can just close the window or press the delete button.

I too have been guilty of this. In the past, I shared personal thoughts publicly because I sought empathy and attention. But my well-liked, comment-littered status updates never resolved my problems in a way that anchored, matured and restored me. They left me feeling still-isolated, craving even more attention.

Don’t get me wrong. I think we humans were made to share our lives with one another. Dallas Willard calls it “reciprocal rootedness:” a continual unfolding of self for the purpose of connecting with others. Without intimate friendships rooted in authenticity, we would wither.  But if we truly value others, “It’s my mouth; I’ll say what I want” can’t be a valid excuse anymore.

Spouting off secrets in the public sphere might make for an entertaining Youtube mini-series, but it can be a taxing and devastating lifestyle. Be authentic, but be careful.